


And They Were Roommates

by Jamilton



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bad Flirting, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Flirting, I swear I will update, Insecurity, Jealousy, Kissing, Light Insecurity, Like be perceptive or youll miss it, Like originally it was gonna be small but i just ran with it, Look guys idki just dont know anymore, M/M, MASSIVE Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Pining, Roommates, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, TMWOPR will be updated, Throwing shade on Bing, at this point im just as surprised by the bullshit i write as you are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22528777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamilton/pseuds/Jamilton
Summary: "Bad date?"The lamenting reply was muffled by a colorful assortment of cushions. "Badlife."With no sincerity whatsoever, Thomas flatly said, "Aw, poor you. Now get your damn shoes off my couch."
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 339





	And They Were Roommates

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo yeah I'm not dead yet despite the lack of updates suggesting otherwise. Also, turned 16 in Jan which was nice  
> I'm gonna go ahead and assume this piece of shit is way better then the vine themed title makes it out to be. I hate everything byeeeee~

The door slammed open, hitting the wall with a loud, resounding thud and startling Thomas from the half-sleep he had almost relaxed into. There was a loud huff and the door was closed with another melodramatic slam. Thomas cursed under his breath, moving backwards in his chair and sparing a baleful glare at the completely unwelcomed intruder.

"Just because you're in a bitchy mood doesn't mean you have to make such a dramatic entrance." Thomas groused. Hamilton, of course, completely ignored him as he had an enthusiastic indifference for common human decency. "We've _talked_ about this. Many times. Hell, three times this week and counting."

Instead of answering, Hamilton stalked into their living room without sparing Thomas a glance or any form of acknowledgement. Bemused, Thomas stared after him, and watched as Hamilton promptly threw himself face-down onto Thomas's couch with casual disregard for any of their mutually agreed upon rules. At this point, an intruder with homicidal intentions would have been more welcomed.

" _Shoes_." Thomas expressed, waspish, glaring at the point of contact where his expensive as all hell sheep-wool blanket met Hamilton's ratty trainers. Hamilton didn't particularly react, idly flipping him off, which caused Thomas to arch an eyebrow at the lacklustre response. Normally, Hamilton would have objected with enough insults and in such rapid succession that he would run out of breath and try to convey the remainder his words through a dark glare. "Bad date?"

The lamenting reply was muffled by a colorful assortment of cushions. "Bad _life_."

With no sincerity whatsoever, Thomas flatly said, "Aw, poor you. Now get your damn shoes off my couch."

"You're such an asshole." Hamilton scowled deeply as he grudgingly complied. Eventually, he sat up, regarding Thomas as he opened up his laptop. Thomas decided to completely ignore him, focusing his attention to a more worthwhile cause. "Have you been here all day again? That's pathetic. At least I _get_ dates."

"Hamilton." Thomas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Logically, he knew that he should tune out whatever bullshit Hamilton was babbling now, but as usual, Hamilton had found a way to evoke a reaction. "I don't parade my personal life around for all to see. For all you know, I could be in a relationship right now."

The last sentence immediately piqued Hamilton's curiosity, and for a moment, he seemed to forget about his tragedy of a life. He regarded Thomas as though he was suddenly an actual person with his own life. "Are you?"

No, as a matter of fact, Thomas hadn't been on a date in over two years, and hadn't been in a relationship for a further three. However, Hamilton certainly didn't need to know that, and even if Thomas wanted to talk about his disappointment of a love life, he would be met with unbridled mocking. "That's none of your business."

"So, you're not." Hamilton correctly concluded. Thomas resumed typing, trying to show Hamilton that the conversation was no longer interesting to him. Hamilton either didn't notice this or didn't care, as he continued to exercise his new favourite pastime - complaining. "My life is tragic."

"You'll get no argument from me." Thomas muttered.

Hamilton made a deeply affronted noise. "I heard that." 

"You were supposed to." Thomas retorted. Eventually, Hamilton had finally grasped the fact that Thomas was _not_ interested in interacting with him. After a few moments of awkward silence, Hamilton finally retreated to his room, likely licking his wounds and Thomas remained in the living area, wondering how he was going to survive the remaining two years of his education whilst dealing with possibly the most annoying man he had ever met.

He could've moved in with James whilst he completed his political science degree, but James was strongly introverted and Thomas refused to put him in an uncomfortable position that could damage their friendship. Besides, they weren't children anymore, and they could easily maintain a friendship outside of classes and mutual social circles.

Thomas eased back into his coursework until it reached an ungodly hour and he finally decided to call it a day. With a wry glance at the clock (indicating that it was an hour past midnight) he closed his laptop, not even bothering to log out and heading to his room.

Then, as a petty form of payback, he loudly slammed his door, the paper-thin walls for once serving as an advantage. A few seconds later, he could hear Hamilton loudly swear at him in response and he smirked, vengefully hoping that he had just woken Hamilton from a sleep. Though, judging by the amount of times Thomas had woken up in the morning to find that Hamilton hadn't slept the night before, his sleeping patterns weren't reliable enough to form a definite indication.

The next morning, he woke to the sound of shrieking. Alarmed, Thomas bolted upright, immediately causing a lightheadedness that refused to subside for several minutes. Rather clumsily, he got to his feet, fumbling to the source of the loud, grating sound. When he got close enough, he was able to pick up on the sound of running water. The tinny sound of illegally downloaded music blaring from a phone soon followed.

Thomas was struck with the horrible realisation that Hamilton was _singing_.

Or, at least, attempting to.

This was not how Thomas wanted to wake up. He tapped the door hard enough for Hamilton to hear over his operatic mimicry. "Hamilton, shut the fuck up!"

In many ways, Hamilton was a petty man, as he responded by singing louder, off key and adding incorrect lyrics for good measure. Thomas gritted his teeth, turning on his heel and trying to drown his sorrows in caffeine and the fact that Hamilton soon had to leave for his law lecture. After two more minutes of listening to what had to be the worst rendition of various songs, Hamilton finally shut up.

Thomas was given five minutes of silence before Hamilton decided that Thomas didn't deserve happiness in his life. Suspiciously cheerful, he greeted, "Morning!"

"Why are you happy?" Thomas immediately demanded, on edge. Hamilton attempted to look innocent but the smirk slowly curling on his lips betrayed him. "You're usually the antichrist when you wake up. Did you drink my coffee again?"

The accusation was enough to make Hamilton drop his perfectly faultless facade and he indignantly objected, "No, and that never happened before."

This was a blatant lie but currently Thomas had far more pressing issues. Hamilton's cheer normally followed misfortune, and almost exclusively _his_ misfortune. It was the same expression he had worn when he picked up their landline before Thomas had a chance to, only to be greeted by Thomas's mother. The resulting conversation lasted ten minutes and every second was pure agony.

Hamilton didn't seem inclined to give much away, regarding Thomas from over the rim of his coffee mug with unusual and harrowing patience. He tried to shrug it off, paying half of his attention to Hamilton and the other half to continuing his morning routine. When he opened his laptop, all the pieces of the puzzle clicked into a horrifying picture.

When he spoke, his words were wrung out from any emotion other than shock. "What the hell have you done?"

Hamilton narrowed his eyes and seethed, "Never wake me up again."

Thomas was at a complete loss for words. He glanced at his laptop, as though confirming the change, then back at Hamilton. For a brief moment, he was impressed at the cunning and just how brutal Hamilton's response was. Quietly, he said, "You're a monster."

"Hey, I could've deleted your dissertation." Hamilton replied. Thomas froze completely, his blood turning cold and icy and he _looked_ at Hamilton. For a moment, Hamilton seemed taken aback by the sheer venom in that expression, so he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Don't look at me like that. The idea crossed my mind, sure, but I'm not _heartless_."

" _Heartless_?" Still hushed, Thomas said, "You replaced my main browser as Bing."

Hamilton looked at him in appraisal. "And I would do it again. Without hesitation"

They continued to regard eachother, Hamilton with a slight smugness, and Thomas in frustration. In order to change it back, Thomas would have to reinstall his main browser and uninstall Bing, which would take hours, as it seemed that Hamilton had also deleted all of the updates.

"You don't know what you've started." Thomas simply said. "I have resources beyond your reach. My sufferance _will_ be exacted."

"I don't care." Hamilton replied. "Whatever battle you bring, I will emerge victorious."

Thomas narrowed his eyes. "We'll see about that. I've already planned my revenge."

Hamilton looked at him appraisingly. Then, with a significant glance to Thomas's laptop, he gave a smirk, shouldering his worn out messenger bag and (naturally, because he had the emotional maturity of a goddamn child) slamming the door shut.

"Stop slamming doors!" Thomas called after him, even though he acknowledged that the attempt of expressing the importance of not being an asshole to their neighbours would likely be wasted on Hamilton's unreasonable petulance. Eventually, after Thomas was sure that Hamilton wouldn't come hurrying back because he had stupidly misplaced something, he minutely relaxed.

In all honesty, he had no plans for his revenge.

They have lived with eachother for little under a year, and in the span of eleven months, Thomas had already moved everything to the highest possible area, changed Hamilton's language settings to Welsh, and, one memorable time, replaced the sugar with salt. To the lattermost, Hamilton hadn't even blinked, and he maintained frosty eye contact as he drank the remainder of the drink. Thomas had since then resolved never to poison Hamilton, as the idiot was likely to follow through out of stubbornness and actually end up getting hurt.

Thomas wasn't one to repeat his actions, and he had no doubt that Hamilton would call him out for it. This meant that he was backed in a corner. Whilst he could easily play it off as waiting for the correct moment to strike, Hamilton had the unfortunate habit of reading far too into his words.

Eventually, Thomas sullenly decided to drop the matter. Granted, his pettiness equaled Hamilton, but ultimately he knew that there was little point in continuing the potential battle that was about to be unleashed. As reluctant as he was to let this transgression go, he would have to, and take whatever solice he could in the fact that not having a plan would irritate Hamilton to no end.

The following few days passed about as well as Thomas would have predicted; Hamilton, by some blessed relief, was avoiding him for a grand and unimpressive total of fourteen hours before he got bored and decided that annoying Thomas was far more entertaining. Personally, Thomas disagreed with this sentiment, and voiced his opinion out loud but Hamilton simply didn't _care_.

Thomas was able to grit his teeth an ignore it as the progress into the new semester brought an increasingly heavy workload. Soon, both Thomas and Hamilton were too busy to do more than exchange harsh words and passive aggressive remarks.

He wasn't sure how long it took him to notice, but by the time three days had passed, he realised that he hadn't seen Hamilton for the duration of little under a week. As though a switch had been flipped, he picked up on the uncomfortable silence and the peculiar stillness of their apartment.

Thomas dismissed the uneasiness as being unaccustomed to being alone, and chose to enjoy the solitude as much as possible whilst it lasted. After all, he knew that Hamilton was still coming and going from the place - occasionally, he could hear running water and the sounds of Hamilton shuffling about. Though, they hadn't exchanged insults or even seen eachother for a long period of time.

There was no time for wondering about what Hamilton was up to, and Thomas found little interest in that topic, but regardless he would occasionally get distracted. This wasn't particularly useful, as his dissertation was due in three days.

Thomas estimated that he still had at least twelve hours of work left on it, and by now he had read and edited and reread each paragraph so often that when he closed his eyes he could still see the blurred outline of words. Finally, after an additional three days that past in a rush, the panic that came with procrastination and an impending deadline arrived, and Thomas had stayed in his room writing for six hours straight and only accomplished five hours of work before giving up for the last hour but occasionally glancing at his work with something akin to immense disappointment.

At this point, Thomas's standards had dipped so low that even glancing at document counted as scholarly exertion. However, he was roughly seven thousand words closer to finishing, and he decided that this would count as a success.

By the time he had finally admitted to himself that no more work had been done or would be done for the next handful of hours, Thomas grudgingly powered it off. He flexed his shoulders in an attempt to ease the aching, grimacing at the harsh click. Eventually, he settled in for sleeping.

Then, after what felt like half an hour but what was likely four minutes, Thomas stood to his feet, slowly dragging himself into the kitchenette and debating on whether or not to make himself coffee. Eventually, he settled for decaf before shuffling to place himself cross-legged in front of the window.

At this time - two in the morning - there was little to no activity. He watched the sheer emptiness of the street below, holding the mug between both hands and trying to find some sense of calm that would lull him to sleep. His hands were burning slightly but he didn't care enough to shift or put it down.

He found himself in a stage of semi-relaxation, eyes heavy and breath levelling out.

To his right, there was a loud crash.

"Shit!" Thomas startled, suddenly wide awake and turning sharply. Hamilton, with the grace of a fucking elephant, had knocked over one of their chairs and was frozen, apparently unsure of what to do. Thomas scowled, any sense of peace disappearing as quickly as snow in the summer. "What the _fuck_ are you doing up so late?"

For a split second, Hamilton seemed caught, glancing guiltily as Thomas as though he had intended to remain hidden. "I didn't mean to - hey, don't be a hypocrite!"

"Why do you always need a dramatic entrance?" Thomas asked, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "You've basically disappeared for two weeks, and the first time you make a reappearance by loudly throwing a chair."

"Aw." Hamilton smirked, completely ducking the bait and leaning back slightly with a smirk. "Miss me?"

Thomas scoffed, surprisingly not amazed by Hamilton's attempt to get a rise. "As much as I miss the fashion trends in the eighties, which you so desperately try to replicate.

"I'll take that as a yes." Hamilton confirmed. Thomas narrowed his eyes, all of a sudden exhausted and yet due to the brief spike of adrenaline, he knew he would still be unable to get to sleep anytime soon. To make matters worse, Hamilton paused, before joining by his side, seemingly hellbent on making as much noise as possible when he did so. He crossed his legs, leaning back slightly and bracing himself on his hands. Whenever he or Thomas shifted, their arms brushed.

It would cause Thomas's chest to tighten uncomfortably, likely out of discomfort from the close proximity. Hamilton's expression was as close to calm as Thomas thought him possible; his eyebrows weren't drawn into the constant frown Thomas was only now beginning to realise he kept, his eyes seemed lighter, and his lips-

Thomas looked away, suddenly and _deeply_ unsettled.

Leaving felt like admitting defeat, but to what Thomas wasn't quite sure. So, he stayed, watching the occasional car pass by, and trying to pretend that he wasn't listening to the way Hamilton's breathing slowly evened out.

He didn't realise he was watching Hamilton until he had shifted in his sleep, still upright but curling into himself in an attempt to keep warmth. For a moment, Thomas stared. He watched how the sharp edges Hamilton carried had softened in his sleep. After a split, uncomfortable second of deliberation, Thomas nudged him. Hamilton just barely reacted, a brief frown clouding his expression before softening once more. Thomas steeled his resolve, ignoring the slight mutter of guilt at having to disturb him. "Hamilton. Wake up."

This combination finally worked, as Hamilton threw an arm over his face, covering his eyes and subsequently muffling his grumbled response. "Fuck you."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "You're not my type."

Hamilton scowled, seemingly with genuine offense. "Rude."

"Move back to your bedroom. I don't want to deal with you complaining about back pain in the morning." Thomas said. Hamilton eyed him warily, evidently reluctant to move and Thomas unsympathetically met his eyes. "I will throw water on you."

"You wouldn't." Hamilton dismissed with a small flick of his hand. There was a pause, and then he huffed. "You would. Fine, I'm moving. You're a terrible person and you should feel bad."

Thomas decided that if Hamilton chose to ignore him and sleep on the floor, he would be free of any blame and therefore guiltlessly answer Hamilton's usual morning snarkiness with frustration of his own. He made his way back to his bed, earlier restlessness disappearing.

Behind him, there was a slight sigh.

"Goodnight."

Thomas half-turned, hesitating by his doorway. Judging by the rare quietness of Hamilton's voice, Thomas had either completely imagined the sentiment, or-

For some strange reason, Hamilton didn't want Thomas to hear.

He risked a glance behind him, only to find that Hamilton was busy wandering around their kitchenette, paying him no attention whatsoever. Idly, Thomas chalked the confusion up to him being so damn tired, and chose not to think of it any longer.

**

By some miracle, likely divine intervention, Thomas had finished his dissertation on time, and with a day to spare. It meant that he was one of the few able to hand his work in early, and, since the lecture for that day was entirely coursework that he had already completed, Thomas was left to his own devices.

Feeling rather lost, Thomas wandered around for an hour or so, stopping to purchase some coffee before slowly making his way back to the apartment. With any luck, Hamilton would have left for his lecture, but unfortunately the risk of this being cancelled were high as the deadline for law dissertations was yesterday.

For a brief second, Thomas believed that he was fortunate, and that Hamilton had left to do whatever was enough to pre-occupy him.

Then, Hamilton emerged from his room as though hearing Thomas's happiness and vindictively wanting to crush it. He headed straight to their kitchenette, leaning up to get a glass. The action would have made his shirt shift upwards, if Hamilton had bothered to wear one.

Rather helplessly, Thomas stared. He wasn't quite sure what to do, but the longer he stood still, the more alarmed he grew. Quickly, he caught himself staring and immediately gained interest with a wall, hoping to all things remotely kind that the burning in his cheeks was not discovered. As usual, Hamilton had the observation skills of a brick wall, and had not noticed his arrival.

"Hamilton." Thomas expressed. "Put a fucking shirt on."

Hamilton startled, taking a step back, but he made no sharp gestures to show he was flustered or unnerved. He turned to face Thomas, and for a second he forgot himself, staring openly at slim muscles and narrow hips.

"Don't you have a lecture?" Hamilton asked, almost accusational. Thomas scowled, jerking his gaze away and hating to be caught off guard _again_.

"It was-" Thomas found himself too distracted to form a coherent sentence. Hamilton sent him a smirk from over his shoulder, completely misinterpreting Thomas's awkwardness. It seemed that this both amused and pleased Hamilton, as he was now giving Thomas his full attention and still not putting on a fucking shirt. "I finished early."

Hamilton raised an eyebrow, languidly basking in his embarrassment before turning sharply, apparently no longer deeming Thomas worthy of any effort. This simultaneously annoyed and relieved Thomas, who took the moment of opportunity to slip into his room and firmly pretending that it didn't look like he was fleeing.

He wasn't really certain how to spend the rest of his day - most of his time consisted of his education and trying not to have a breakdown. There was little point in attempting to interact with James; medical students were notorious for completely neglecting their social lives, and the fact that James was working daily in an attempt to keep up with coursework after catching the flu didn't help.

Regardless, Thomas sent him an email with the attachment of an old photo he had found of James that he just knew would make his soul wither into a small ball and die. Unsurprisingly, even after three hours of passing time, James hadn't replied or read the message. After a further half hour, Hamilton loudly announced, "I'm having friends over, if you have an issue, then deal with it somewhere else."

"Charming as usual, you bastard." Thomas replied flippantly, not particularly caring if Hamilton did or did not hear. Hamilton scoffed, but didn't decide to answer. After a brief second of debate, Thomas decided that dwelling on his boredom wasn't productive, and left his room.

"He lives!" Hamilton exclaimed in faux shock. When Thomas didn't even so much as pause to glare, Hamilton pressed, "What have you emerged for, o silent one?"

"Entertainment." Thomas blandly replied. Rather mulishly, he walked over to the kitchenette to retrieve his croutons and paused when he couldn't find them. "Hamiltion. If you ate my _goddamn croutons,_ I will break your fucking kneecaps."

Hamilton scoffed, gesturing wildly, likely knocked off guard at being so quickly caught and reverting to behaving defensively. "You stole over half of my pancake mix!"

This time, Thomas was caught out. He blinked, before catching up, scowling, "It was pancake day! What was I supposed to do, starve?"

"Yes." Hamilton answered flatly, as though it was obvious, and Thomas wasn't particularly sure what response he had been expecting. Regardless, Thomas flipped him off and decided that if Hamilton was going to be a selfish bastard and steal his croutons, then Thomas might as well return the favour by stealing some of his ramen. Hamilton didn't comment on this, instead setting up his laptop in an attempt to stream from what was likely an illegal website.

"Look, Alexander, your wait is over." Thomas deadpanned. Hamilton looked at him sharply. Rather wryly, Thomas gestured at the laptop screen, at a bright, flashing advert with far too many exclamation marks. With a dry voice, Thomas read, "These steroids turn real men men into beasts."

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Dermatologists hate them."

"Exactly." Thomas said. "What are you watching?"

Hamilton smirked. "The best movie ever."

"The Room." Thomas said, unfamiliar with the name or why this gave Hamilton such happiness. Hamilton nodded, looking rather proud of himself, and pressed play. Thomas frowned. "Wait, right now?"

"My friends are coming in two hours, and you said you wanted entertainment." Hamilton shrugged. With entirely exaggerated and false reluctance, Thomas sighed, joining Hamilton, who after several seconds of failure, finally managed to stream the video from a glitchy, ad-riddled and illegal website.

"Is this actually a good movie?" Thomas asked, warily eyeing the rating.

"Yes." Hamilton snapped, almost offended. He turned to give Thomas a dark glower. "How dare you question Tommy Wiseau?"

Thomas looked at Hamilton blankly. "Who?"

"For someone so pretentious, you do lack knowledge in great and world-renowned artists." Hamilton sniffed, seemingly put out by Thomas's lack of awareness. He shifted, curling up on the couch and pressing play.

" _Pretentious_?" Thomas asked sharply.

Hamilton glared. "Shut up, it's starting!"

Thus began the most agonizing ninety nine minutes of his life. Thomas very, very quickly caught onto the fact that, shockingly, Hamilton had lied and it was perhaps a cinematic disaster. Just as quickly, however, Thomas decided that Hamilton would _not_ be given the satisfaction of seeing his confusion at just how _appalling_ the movie was.

Thomas schooled his features as much as possible, trying to pretend that he didn't notice how Hamilton continuously sneaked glances to gauge his reaction. After a spectacularly horrendous scene, Hamilton gave a suspicious sounding cough which, upon closer inspection, was a laugh.

This finally broke Thomas's guarded demeanour and he grinned, the facade of genuine appreciation at the movie finally cracking. The film only decreased in quality, much to Hamilton's _palpable_ delight. Towards the end, Alex stretched his legs over Thomas's, staring pointedly at the screen and not reacting to how Thomas startled. The comment Thomas was about to make about the spectacular acting died in his throat and he froze, unsure what to make of the contact. Eventually, after a few seconds of watching Hamilton and trying to find anything that gave away what he was thinking, Thomas eased into the contact, resting his arm over Hamilton's legs.

For a brief second, Thomas could have sworn Hamilton's expression had lightened and the barest hint of a shy smile crossed his face. Then, it was gone just as quickly as it appeared and Thomas was left wondering whether or not it was wistful thinking - and _why_ it would be wistful. The warmth that blossomed in his chest was unwelcoming, but it stubbornly stayed there, and he wasn't sure what to do.

Regardless, his concentration was shot, and he would catch himself staring at Hamilton, attempting to commit his relaxed demeanor to memory. Eventually, the movie came to a stop, Hamilton looking rather pleased with himself, and he gave Thomas an expectant look.

"That was..." Thomas began, trailing off when no words were suitable for expressing just how bad it was.

"A masterpiece?" Hamilton offered. "A triumph?"

"A colossal failure." Thomas finished, decisive.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." Hamilton sighed, shaking his head, as though he had expected the literary genius of _The Room_ to completely go over Thomas's head but had still hoped for better. Abruptly, he moved away, standing and sorting out his laptop. "Besides, I know better than to take the opinion of a man who eats pineapple on pizza."

Thomas narrowed his eyes, about to retort, but the door was knocked, causing Hamilton to jump as though he had forgotten about the fact that he had invited his friends. Thomas could almost feel himself withdraw, the domesticity of the moment gone quickly and all that he was left with was a vague sense of disappointment. Even more unusual was that Hamilton seemed to share the feeling and he cast a regretful glance at Thomas, the door, and then the screen that was _still_ going through credits.

Hamilton shuffled to the door, but paused when Thomas began to move to his room. A quick expression flashed across his face, too fleeting for Thomas to catch and understand. "Jefferson, you could - stay, for a bit. You know, hang out."

For a brief second, Thomas considered saying yes. That he could properly meet Hamilton's friends and talk with them, gauge their personalities and see how Hamilton would react to them, and secretly compare his interactions with Hamilton to theirs. Common sense abruptly caught up and he reminded himself that he disliked Hamilton - or, at the very least, Hamilton disliked him, and the request was likely out of formality that Thomas was meant to acknowledge but not accept.

Thomas took a step back. "I've got stuff to do."

It was a blatant lie, and judging by Hamilton's suddenly unreadable expression, they both knew this. Instead of pushing the point like he normally did, Hamilton nodded once, strangely somber, and went to open the door. Thomas took this as a cue to leave, quickly entering his room and closing the door.

This time, when checking his emails, he saw that James had replied with an image of his own - when Thomas was roughly fourteen and going through a questionable phase that included a liberal use of his mother's black eyeliner and a conscious ignorance for how to appear like a semi-approachable human being.

Thomas inwardly winced, but noted that he hadn't decided to give himself a fringe the same way James did, which was always beneficial. He typed back a reply, and for a few moments there was an exchange, until James had to end his break from studying and go back to work.

Hamilton, for his controlled and almost solemn demeanour mere moments ago, had switched back into the loud, exuberant asshole that Thomas had grown so familiar with. For the most part, Thomas was unusually content to let it happen. He would endure the laughter and relaxed conversation, pretending that he wasn't trying to pick out Hamilton's voice amongst the din, and wondered how different it would be if he had agreed to Hamilton's tentative offer.

**

The morning brought three rather unpleasant surprises.

One; Thomas's lecture, yet again, had been cancelled for the day. It appeared that, despite the fact that they were all old enough to maintain a schedule and stick to it, over half of his class still hadn't handed in their dissertations, and Mercer was notorious for wanting everything together and cleanly cut before moving on.

Two, and perhaps more urgently upsetting; Hamilton was singing in the shower. _Again_. Off-key, loudly, and in a way that Thomas just _knew_ Hamilton wanted him to hear and get wound up by it.

The third surprise occurred when he had left his room, preparing various threats that he only half meant. What became distinctively clear was that John Laurens had decided that walking back to whatever circle of hell he wilfully crawled from would be too much effort. The moment the room to Hamilton's door opened to reveal an exhausted, hung-over looking Laurens, Thomas knew that higher powers he could not understand had all congressed and agreed that _yes, today_ was _the day to finally give Thomas a_ goddamn _heart attack._

To make matters so, so much worse, Hamilton emerged from their shower, blessedly fully-clothed, and, judging by the bright grin (that Thomas had never received before, he would remember something like that being sent in his direction), Hamilton was not interested in making his life a little easier.

"Good morning." Hamilton smiled, too innocent, and Thomas was immediately set on his guard. He cautiously watched Hamilton move about their kitchenette, automatically retrieving three mugs. "John, pass me the coffee?"

There was an inviting dip to his voice, one that spoke strongly of ' _let's skip past the coffee and go straight to bed_ ', and Thomas could feel the blood rush to his face. This was likely what everybody else saw - smart, cunning, charming Alexander Hamilton, and not the spite fuelled antichrist Thomas had to deal with on a regular basis.

For a second, there was an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. Thomas had never seen Hamilton like this, and the fact that Laurens barely even blinked at the inviting tone spoke volumes. Under a month ago, Hamilton was lamenting about his failure of a love life. Surely, if there was a further development, Hamilton would-

He stopped himself, derisive. Hamilton would _what_ , exactly? Tell him? Hardly; they weren't friends, and were barely friendly at the best of times.

"Morning." Thomas said, at least ten seconds too late, and mentally slapped himself. Laurens gave an unattractive snort, amused at something Thomas didn't quite see. There was a pause.

For a brief second, Hamilton smirked, as though sensing proverbial blood in the water. He cocked an eyebrow, confident in his position. The curl of his lips drew Thomas in, and Hamilton _knew_ it. With exaggerated innocence, Hamilton asked, "You don't mind that John stayed?"

"No." Thomas _did_ \- more than he could express - and the forced calmness in his tone was enough to fool Laurens. However, after months of occupying the same space with Hamilton, they had both adapted to read eachother, and Hamilton could tell the blatant lie for what it was.

His eyes brighten and he leaned forward slightly, pressing his advantage and dropping his voice into a faux attempt at placative understanding. "If this bothers you-"

"It _doesn't_." Thomas finally snapped, and then immediately regretted doing so. The look Hamilton sent him was of pleased gratification. Thomas mentally reeled back, trying to find his footing and not let Hamilton win - _whatever_ this was. "Bother me, as in. I don't care, Hamilton."

"Good." Hamilton said. "So, you wouldn't mind it if John came around here more often?"

 _Yes, he would_.

"No."

Hamilton didn't move. His hand was close enough to brush against Thomas's arm, yet he made no move to do so. He remained close enough that Thomas could-

No. Thomas reigned himself in, drawing the uncharacteristic aggravation and even more uncharacteristic desire to accidentally knock Laurens's coffee mug right of their kitchenette counter. He wasn't prone to fits of passion, and it seemed that whatever game Hamilton was playing, Thomas had stakes in it, too.

"Good." Hamilton said smoothly, still keeping his voice low, intimate, as though there was nobody else with them.

Thomas ignored the way the heat in Hamilton's voice and eyes affected him. When Hamilton's hand brushed his own, Thomas refrained from letting the fact that he wanted - with more intensity than he thought capable - to catch Hamilton's wrist and intertwine their fingers together, to see what Hamilton would do, if he would pull away. Once again, his response was delayed. "Good."

It seemed that the gentleness that had unwittingly crept in Thomas's tone caught Hamilton unaware and he hesitated, expression caught and open and filled with another emotion that Thomas had never seen on Hamilton's face - _longing_? surely not, Thomas wasn't _naive_ \- but then Hamilton was just as closed off as before.

Laurens, despite being the main subject of the conversation, had not taken part; instead, he watched it unravel like a particularly fascinating ball of yarn, eyes trained on their interaction and completely neglecting his coffee. Again, Thomas was hit with the alarmingly petty desire to knock the mug onto the floor.

Suddenly awkward, as though he had been caught in misgivings, Thomas retreated back to his room, unready and _deeply_ unwilling to dissect and sort out what had just happened there. However, Thomas's mind refused to focus on anything else, repeating the way Hamilton's voice lowered and hung onto the word _John_ -

That was not helping. That was really, _really_ not helping and Thomas hated not understanding why. Perhaps he just didn't like Laurens. True enough, he supposed, but that didn't explain the sharp animosity that threatened to snap and turn into a childish anger that he couldn't even begin to justify.

The fact that Laurens had left from _Hamilton's_ bedroom loudly repeated itself and Thomas thinned his lips. It was none of his business, Thomas reminded himself. He supposed that it was slightly jarring; this would be the first - and, hopefully, _last_ \- time Hamilton ever allowed someone to spend the night.

Regardless, he had an entire day to work this bullshit out, or distract himself from it so that it no longer stung. It came as a deeply welcomed relief when he could hear Hamilton finally say goodbye to Laurens, and the open and close click of the front door sounded.

He reappeared, giving Hamilton an appraising look, judging whether their goodbyes had been as platonic as he hoped them to be. Hamilton was impossible to read, turning back to Thomas and giving him a slight smile. "You forgot your coffee."

"I did." Thomas agreed. A quick, cursory glance at the kitchenette showed two mugs, both likely still warm enough to drink. With a light voice, he remarked, "As did you."

Hamilton looked rather satisfied with this assessment, and all too late Thomas recognised the trap for what it was. "You'll have to join me, then."

"Have to?" Thomas inquired, raising an eyebrow but nonetheless following after Hamilton.

Hamilton gave a noncommittal hum. When he spoke, it was reminiscent of the way he had talked before, tone lowered and filled with an intent Thomas couldn't place. Regardless of this, there was a strange conviction to his words. "Only if you want to." 

Thomas gave an exaggerated sigh, shrugging a shoulder. "I suppose your company can be tolerated a little while longer. My lecture was cancelled."

"Hm." Hamilton's ambiguous reply did little to help mask the approval he felt over yet another of Thomas's cancelled lecture. For a brief second, Thomas considered making a joke about Hamilton's - and his own - sudden tolerance of the other's company. However, Hamilton was quick to continue the topic, perhaps aware of how his ambiguous reply could be taken. "I suppose I could search up and see if they've made a sequel for our favourite movie."

"No." Thomas said with a rather sharp tone. Hamilton smirked, pleased at provoking a reaction. Thomas glared. "No, I am not sitting through another two hours of, of - _that_."

He would, in a heartbeat, if Hamilton was by his side.

The thought sounded far too much like a confession.

"I suppose you should consider yourself lucky that there isn't a sequel." Hamilton mused, sounding barely regretful at the lack of such entertainment. Thomas rolled his eyes, pushing the cup of coffee towards Hamilton in a very transparent attempt to get him to shut up.

Hamilton made an indignant noise, but he still settled, resting his back against the counter of the kitchenette to give Thomas his full attention. Thomas regarded him, vaguely curious, as he took sips and occasionally giving a slight grimace when the bitterness became too much.

"Why do you drink your coffee like that?" Thomas suddenly asked. Hamilton gave him an inquisitive look, obviously not following. For a moment, Thomas hesitated. Then, he continued, "You go fucking wild with sugar in tea, why is coffee different?"

Hamilton gave him an innocent smile. "Maybe I like dark and bitter things."

"You're an idiot." Thomas decided with firm authority. Somehow, this coaxed a bright grin out of Hamilton, genuine and warm and soft. Quickly, Hamilton tried to cover his response, taking another sip and grimacing, but when he looked at Thomas, the traces of a smile stubbornly remained.

Eventually, they settled to watch another film in Hamilton's seemingly endless arsenal of appalling scripts and sub par acting. Hamilton would provide an endless running commentary, and Thomas would tell him to shut up. After a while, though, Thomas would give in, and join with mocking particularly stupid character mistakes.

**

This became a ritual that Thomas pretended to hate.

Each morning, one of them would wake earlier than the other - normally Hamilton, and Thomas would be forced awake to rousing renditions of whatever Hamilton deemed bad enough to make Thomas suffer. More often than not, Thomas would make them coffee, letting Hamilton see him smirk whenever the bitterness caused him to wince.

Then, they would head to their respective lectures. Their timetables aligned more often than not these days, after the first exam season was tucked away nearly. Thomas, of course, found out a month later that he scored a distinction, the second highest in his class of seventy. He took extra care to hang the report card on their fridge, and it took under an hour for the eloquent post it note response of ' _fuck off_.'

By the time Thomas got back, Hamilton was already there, stretching out on Thomas's couch like he owned it. Thomas would spare a sharp remark at this, mostly for propriety's sake, but Hamilton ignored him and continuing his best impression of an overgrown cat. Hamilton would take this time to start bitching about whatever pissed him off - sometimes lectures, sometimes classmates, sometimes Thomas - and Thomas would only half engage, comfortable to let the sound of Hamilton's voice continue.

On one such occasion, Hamilton was bemoaning the continued existence of one Charles Lee whilst Thomas made some coffee, periodically throwing in a comment in Lee's defense, just to see Hamilton become more agitated. Thomas pressed the cup into his hands, before eyeing the tie of the day. It was a hideous affair, naturally, and Thomas would rather cheerfully see it burned, but what drew his attention was the uneven angle, as though Hamilton had been in a rush to tie it.

Thomas hummed under his breath, indicating that he was still listening to Hamilton's tirade and automatically reaching out to fix Hamilton's tie. Hamilton immediately fell silent, tensing just barely.

He did not pull back, so neither did Thomas.

He could feel the stutter of breath in Hamilton's chest and he kept his hands flat against Hamilton's chest, unsure of what kept him there. Eventually, Thomas was snapped out of the half-trance, remembering himself. Instead of allowing embarrassment to take charge and cause him to recoil, he continued his action, risking a glance when he was finished, only to find that Hamilton was watching his face intently.

"You look like less of a disaster now." Thomas appraised, voice coming out hushed, as though the fragile silence between them wouldn't be broken in he softened his voice. He withdrew from Hamilton's personal space, unable to identify the fleeting emotion that crossed across Hamilton's face as he did so.

"I never look like a disaster." Hamilton said, and though it was a lie, Hamilton genuinely seemed to believe it.

From then on, Thomas suddenly noticed that there was always something slightly askew about Hamilton's appearance. The entire scene took him as far, far too domestic and familiar, but the perfectionism - and, to a greater level, the feeling of Hamilton under his hands - always caused him to fix the mistake. Hamilton was content to allow him.

Most of the time, he believed the first incident was enough to make him hyper aware and aware of Hamilton and his appearance. A smaller voice, quiet but insistent, wondered if Hamilton could be doing this on purpose, that he enjoyed Thomas's touch.

It was a dangerous thought, but it was one that Thomas wanted desperately to indulge in. Some self-preservation instinct held him back, and Thomas reminded himself that Hamilton was far more blunt about his emotions than Thomas could ever dream of being. Besides, it wasn't as though Hamilton was struggling to gain attention. He had Laurens, and though the thought was sharp, it was grounding and helped Thomas remind himself that someone's friendly demeanour didn't always indicate interest.

Their ritual, from then onwards, would vary during the day. Sometimes, Hamilton would help Thomas cook - or, more accurate, Thomas would try to avoid Hamilton starting fires by accident. Other times, they would curl up on Thomas's couch and watch one of Hamilton's many film recommendations that simultaneously wounded and amused Thomas.

Far, far more rarely, they would keep conversation when both Hamilton and Thomas couldn't sleep. To Thomas's surprising concern, Hamilton's sleeping habits were simply dreadful, and he would more often than not be awake, staring out of the window and onto the barely illuminated streets below.

These were the secret moments Thomas coveted most. There was never acknowledgement that these meetings happened. They would sit, side by side - sometimes Hamilton resting his head on Thomas's shoulder, sometimes with their hands just barely brushing, the placement of such feeling oddly purposeful on both sides. These were the moments their mutual facades dropped - Hamilton was calmer, and Thomas was less in control.

Each moment was dreamlike, flitting seamlessly into Thomas's life as though they had always been there. Occasionally, they would ease through several topics, from deep and philosophical to rather bewildering but nonetheless interesting. Most of the time, though, there would be silence. They would allow eachother to enjoy company without talking.

On one such night, at least two hours past midnight, the distance between them was felt more keenly than usual. Thomas summed it up to the fact that Hamilton was usually tactile but this time he kept himself withdrawn. Thomas could hear each breath, could feel the welcoming warmth of his body heat, but didn't move.

He wanted-

What he wanted wasn't important.

He looked away, ignoring the pang of hurt at the harsh but realistic bluntness of his own thoughts. There was little to no point in entertaining ideals, especially one as unavailable as this. 

Quietly, and with a slight reverence that Thomas recognised as not wanting to damage the silence, Hamilton said, "I didn't want you to notice me, the first time."

Thomas snuck a furtive glance at Hamilton, unsurprised to find that his gaze was steadfastly directed on the outside world. He inclined his head, remembering the moment. He also remembered that Hamilton's endeavor had spectacularly failed the moment he started crashing into furniture. "Improved your tactics, Hamilton?"

"They were already perfect." Hamilton dismissed, but there was a smile behind his voice.

Thomas gave him a dubious look, which Hamilton missed. Eventually, the purpose behind his stare was gone, and he merely observed Hamilton. He watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, the openness of Hamilton's face. "Why didn't you want me to notice you?"

This garnered a long pause.

Hamilton looked at him, as though premeditating what Thomas's reactions would be depending on his honesty.

"You looked calm." Hamilton eventually replied. "I didn't want to fuck that up."

Thomas wasn't sure how to reply, so he didn't.

At least half of an hour was spent like this. Thomas would continue to regard Hamilton, who would, in turn, watch what little was happening in the outside world. Eventually, Hamilton's breathing evened out, half-sprawled on his side and expression lax.

Unlike the first night, Thomas found himself greatly reluctant to wake him, especially since Thomas was fully aware of the lack of sleep he received. After weighing the pros and cons of each hypothetical, Thomas carefully stood, caution causing each step to be soft. He retreated to his room, returning when he held a large, soft blanket. By then, Thomas was sure that him moving had disturbed Hamilton from his rest, but Hamilton seemed rather content and allowed the blanket to be draped on him.

Once he was satisfied that Hamilton wouldn't freeze to death, Thomas moved back to his bedroom, hesitating by the door frame. As though sensing his reluctance to leave, Hamilton said, "You can stay, you know."

Thomas wasn't sure if he heard the masked question, or if it was of his own design. Each would bring questions that Thomas couldn't answer, and each would condemn him to the reward of Hamilton's company. Either way, he knew he couldn't remain there, not when Hamilton looked so damn inviting and Thomas was so damn _lonely_.

Wordlessly, and knowing that he had Hamilton's full attention, he moved back and closed the door, ending the dreamlike moment that he and Hamilton had just shared.

**

As they proceeded into the middle of winter, the sunlight hours shortened, and bad weather was a constant companion. In this moment, Thomas was deeply grateful that he didn't have lectures every day, unlike James. Instead, he was allowed to watch the rain lash against windows.

Despite the time being a little past seven, the sun was finally rising, painting the interior of their apartment with soft hues of red and orange. For the most part, he listened to Hamilton clatter about the kitchenette despite his best attempts to remain quiet.

After a while, Hamilton ceased his movements, joining Thomas's side. Thomas made room to accomodate for the movement, so Hamilton situated himself close enough that their knees brushed. Whilst Thomas didn't deepen the contact, he didn't pull away.

"I don't know how to dance." Hamilton mused, seemingly a throwaway comment. Thomas briefly wondered why Hamilton had that particular thought before deciding that it didn't really matter. Their hands brushed and Thomas fought down the way his blood seemed to spark with electric at the most brief and accidental touches.

"Oh, that's tragic." Thomas said, entirely unsympathetic. To his right, there was an exasperated huff, indicating that this was the response Hamilton had expected, but not the one he wanted. "Hamilton, why is this suddenly my problem?"

Hamilton made an affronted noise. "You live with me. Offer support!"

"Normally, offering support to someone implies that they're friends, and we're not." Thomas pointed out. Hamilton fell silent. There was no sharp rebuttal, no argument or barbed retort that he had grown accustomed to over the course of their cohabitation. For a second, Thomas wondered if he had mistepped, before remembering that it didn't - it _wasn't supposed_ _to_ matter. Grimly, already regretting this decision, he stood, and gestured at Hamilton. "On your feet."

For a man so clever, he sure as hell slow on the uptake. "What?"

Thomas wasn't going to dignify that a response. Warily, Hamilton stood, regarding Thomas with guarded curiosity. Although he was almost certain he knew the answer to this, Thomas still asked, "Would you lead or follow?"

"Lead." Hamilton immediately replied, because of course he would.

"Great, more work." Thomas said unenthusiastically. Anxiety had began to claw at his stomach. Regardless, it was too late to back out, as a slow look of understanding finally dawned on Hamilton's face. As though sensing how unimpressed Thomas was with the development, Hamilton gave a defensively murmured insult that Thomas graciously pretended not to hear.

Ideally, Thomas wouldn't have to teach dance in a small apartment. Even as they moved the couches asides, there was the minimal amount of room present, and Thomas inwardly groaned, wondering how Hamilton had persuaded him into this with a handful of words and an awkward silence. Quickly, he picked an inoffensive classical piece in three-four time, cursing himself all whilst doing so.

Fuck, this was a mess.

"I'll be leading first." Thomas told Hamilton, who was watching him with increasing interest.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Control freak?"

"No, a healthy interest in survival." Thomas retorted. Hamilton winced, a hand raised and then placed directly over his heart, as though defending himself from some mortal blow. "It doesn't help that you're under four foot."

Predictably, "Five foot four!"

"Right." Thomas said slowly, languidly dragging out the syllable in case Hamilton needed more proof that Thomas was mocking him. Hamilton scowled, looking more than ready to rebuke, but Thomas interrupted, "Hamilton, put a hand on my shoulder."

Alex complied without hesitation and Thomas valiantly tried not to react. This was, without a doubt, the closest they had been. The look of concentration written across Alex's face, even before starting, was endearing enough for him to give a slight smile before remembering himself and schooling his expressions. Without a word, Thomas moved his hand to lie against Alex's waist.

There was something incredibly heady about the closeness. He could feel the rise and fall of Alex's chest, could feel the intensity at which Alex watched every single action he did like it was a physical, burning heat. Carefully, he joined their free hands together, the naturalness of the action surprising him. He murmered instructions of what to do and when to do so before starting, but at this point, teaching Alex how to waltz felt like a poor pretense.

At first, Alex was tense. He was able to follow easily enough, though he spent most of his time watching what he was doing, worried about potential injuries. Then, after some encouragement and Thomas pointing out that Alex was, at least, not wearing stilettos, the fluidity of the waltz began to seep in.

"I didn't know you could dance." Alex muttered tersely against his chest. He was still watching where his feet were going.

"I had lessons." Thomas replied, causing Alex to glance up at him in surprise. "Since I was ten. Thankfully, by the time I was sixteen I was able to make my own decisions and stopped going."

It took Alex roughly five minutes to finally slip up, losing his balance and stumbling forwards. Immediately, Thomas caught him, looping both arms around his waist fully and fully pressing their chests together. On instinct, Alex rushed to steady himself, both hands finding Thomas's shoulders. There was a spilt second of pause in which they both assessed the position they had just put themselves in.

Alex moved back just barely, moving his hands down placing his palms flat against Thomas's chest. In response, Thomas subconsciously tightened his grip, causing Alex to glance up at him with the beginnings of a grin. "Hey."

It took Thomas an embarrassingly long amount of time to work out that Alex had spoken. He glanced at Alex's face, only to find that Alex's eyes were focussed on his hands, and the way they were placed against his chest. "Hey."

After a long moment, Alex looked up, made eye contact. Dawn had caught his eyes, making them look far brighter, bringing forward the scarce flecks of gold against brown. The music still played, but a different song - Thomas hadn't noticed the change, could only focus on Alex, how he moved.

Thomas wanted to do something, something to ease the sudden knot of tension in his chest. Alex was watching him, almost waiting, as though he expected some sort of action or expression that indicated what he could do next. Thomas was equally uncertain, the unique nervous fluttering that came with knowing he had to act, or miss out on something that he couldn't quite identify.

Then, the moment passed.

He could read the tired resignation that slowly passed across Alex's face, the way he withdrew causing Thomas to wince. He moved backwards fully, not quite meeting Thomas's eyes but certainly not looking away. Thomas immediately missed his warmth. Alex cleared his throat, and for the first time since meeting him, Alex looked _awkward_. "Thanks. For showing me how to dance, as in."

Thomas wanted to reach forwards, to take Alex's hand in his own and keep him there. Instead, he nodded once, indicating that Alex had been heard, and merely watched as Alex left for his room, not even glancing behind him as he left.

An odd, urgent sense of loss hit him. He turned off the quiet hum of music and warily surveyed the room, suddenly uncomfortable with staying in the wide, open space. He retreated to his own room, frustrated, tensed.

What the _fuck_ had just happened?

The stupid, stubbornly ignorant part of him refused to acknowledge that it was any more than an impromptu dance lesson. That wasn't it, though, he knew; there was another aspect, something that explained why his heart had stuttered and then _raced_ , was _still_ too fast to be considered normal.

He frowned, and tried to ignore the phantom heat that still lingered against his hands.

**

If Thomas thought that both of their dissertations caused a long time of separation, then now that Alex was actively avoiding him, it was as though he lived alone. In short, Thomas hated it. The routine they had developed was thrown away. Alex would wait until Thomas left for his lecture before going about his business.

For some reason, not having his usual conversations with Alex - not even _seeing_ Alex for _two weeks_ \- had caused a physical discomfort. It felt as though, after that morning, his chest hadn't eased from the taut compression he had fallen into. He could go two months without seeing James in relative ease, and yet after under fourteen days of silence from Alex, it was as though his focus had decided to leave, too.

It reached the point where he had to ask Burr to look at his notes, and see what he had missed after zoning out repeatedly, wondering how the hell he was going to sort things out with Alex.

He couldn't even sort out the meaning behind his own actions, let alone behind Alex's. He had held on when he should have stepped back, and talked when he would usually stay quiet. At least he knew that Alex, in general, was tactile, and that Thomas wasn't exclusively receiving attention. Thomas, however, was very careful with who he let in his personal space. The fact that he had allowed contact, had even wished for it, was damn near a rarity.

What would he have done if Alex had stayed? Thomas told himself that he didn't know. To a degree, this was correct; there was no way of definitively knowing, nor would there ever be. Though, if Alex had stayed, pressed against him and looking up with too soft eyes, Thomas knew what he would have wanted _\- still wanted_ \- to do.

He couldn't, though. Especially now, when he and Alex hadn't been in the same room for two weeks.

Besides, it wasn't as though Alex was remotely interested. He had made this abundantly clear, both through his - relationship? - with John, and through the fact that he hadn't made the first move. Thomas had seen Alex interact when he was interested in someone; the charm would switch on, and he would do his best to put the other person at ease, instead of causing arguments or acting petty every five minutes or so. Alex wouldn't be how he was like with Thomas. 

He briefly toyed with the idea of telling James. Though, he didn't want the good advice that James would inevitably give, he just wanted to bitch to someone about how depressing his social life had become. Unfortunately, he would normally talk to Alex about that, and endure the lack of sympathy.

He was able to drag himself through the coursework, finding slight solace in the fact that the worst of Winter was over, and daylight hours were slowly stretching out. It was the same pattern he had before moving in with Alex, and before they started talking to eachother. Though it was effective, it was boring, and Thomas was rapidly beginning to realise just how much of his life involved Alex in some way or another.

This particular day, Thomas caught himself feeling especially restless, and no amount of pacing or attempts at sleep could get him to relax. Thomas didn't need to glance at his window to know that it was just barely before midnight, yet he did so anyway, hoping to find something calming about the skies.

He considered refocusing on editing his coursework, before giving up on the thought. Eventually, he sighed, conceding defeat, and left his room to go to his usual area when sleep decided to evade him, only to immediately stop.

For once, Thomas was the one to walk in when Alex was already there.

Alex didn't greet him, or turn to gesture that his presence had been acknowledged. He remained still, almost in a transient sense of calm. There was little to no doubt that Alex had heard Thomas's arrival, bit he had chosen to let Thomas make the next move. If he backed away now, retreated into his room, then Alex would pretend not to notice and Thomas would get to pretend that this was the best option.

Quietly, with slow, steady movements, Thomas stepped forward, pulling the door after him and gently clicking it shut. Alex hadn't moved, but there was a certain tension around his shoulders. Then, suddenly, "I didn't think you were going to stay."

Thomas blinked, startled. There was a brief lapse in which he considered his answer. "Nor did I."

"You haven't, before." Alex said, and it almost sounded like an accusation that juxtaposed to his almost conversational tone. "Even when I asked you to."

"I know." Thomas's heart thudded in his chest, almost painful. He walked over to Alex, but kept a slight space of distance between them, as though stepping any closer would scare Alex off. "I wanted to."

At this, Alex bristled and finally, _finally_ looked at him. "Then why didn't you?"

Alex looked far too tired. Thomas warily eyed the coffee besides him, unsure if the caffeine was a good idea that late at night, but unwilling to cause a potential argument. Alex was still watching him, expectant. Thomas didn't take a step back, despite wanting to. "I couldn't."

"Why not?" Alex asked, pinning Thomas under eye contact. There wasn't a way to answer that question, not without giving too much or phrasing it wrongly, so Thomas sidestepped the issue.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" Thomas retorted, crossing his arms.

Alex thinned his lips, as though his avoidance of the prior question had been distastefully blatant. "Why'd you think?"

In truth, Thomas wasn't certain. For a split second, Thomas thought that he saw Alex's expression soften, just barely, at the obvious lack of an answer Thomas could provide for that question. Then, it was back to almost-neutral passivity, and something in Thomas _ached_. They remained in silence for a handful long minutes.

"What did you want to gain from this, Thomas?" Alex suddenly sounded tired, an emotion so damn unfamiliar on Alex that Thomas inwardly winced.

"I want us to be normal again."

"That's not going to happen." Alex sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, but for once Thomas could tell that the frustration was not directed towards him. "Too much has happened, and I still need time."

Thomas's brows furrowed. He watched closely as Alex rose to his feet. "Time for what?"

"Of course." Alex said flatly, more frustration seeping into his tone. "Of course you haven't noticed."

"Alexander." Thomas said, and waited for him to elaborate. Alex huffed, sounding increasingly agitated, and he fixed Thomas a sharp look.

"Have you seen the way I look at you?" He asked, blunt, taking a step towards Thomas. His eyes were trained on Thomas's face, never glancing away from him. There was nothing holding Thomas in place, nothing forcing him to stay, and yet he was stuck, drawn to Alex as he approached. "You're a smart man. Put these things together."

Things still didn't click, and his alarmed confusion must have been conveyed through his expression, as Alex scowled, discontent. Automatically, Thomas reached out, trying to ease the situation, curving a hand gently around Alex's wrist. After an agonizing few seconds of silence, Thomas was about to retreat, but then Alex made a small, low sound of distress in the back of his throat.

And, suddenly, Thomas was being pushed back until his back hit the counter of their kitchenette, and Alex had leaned up, pressing his lips against Thomas's.

The contact was chaste, gentle and so brief that Thomas wasn't sure if it had happened. Though, Alex's cheeks were deeply flushed, and all traces of his previous agitation had disappeared into a haze of surprise, as though his actions had come as just as much of a shock. Dazed, Thomas raised a hand to his lips, and Alex traced the movement carefully.

For once, Thomas allowed himself not to think.

He cupped Alex's cheek with one hand, drawing him closer by wrapping an arm around his waist. Alex went willingly, still in a daze, hands coming to rest against Thomas's back. This time, Thomas made the first move, meeting Alex's lips and not pulling back after the slightest touch. This seemed to finally spur Alex into action, as he seemed to melt against Thomas, leaning into his touch hungrily.

Alex's lips were warm and soft against his own. He deeped the kiss, lightly biting at Alex's bottom lip and delighting in the small shiver he earned in response. There was a languid intensity to the moment; despite Alex's initiation, he allowed Thomas to take control and set the pace.

When they parted for air, Thomas enjoyed the sight that Alex made; pupils heavily dilated, blush slowly spreading down to his neck, and radiating a heady sense of affection. He didn't move back, but he frowned. "What-"

"Don't think." Thomas muttured. Alex made a noise of disapproval at both the phrasing and the interruption, but he didn't appear too phased, content to allow Thomas to continue. "We'll make sense of this in the morning. Later."

Alex paused, seemingly thinking this offer over before he nodded once, eyes soft and unquestionably fond. "Later."

**Author's Note:**

> Throwback to the time where I had the biggest crush on a girl and I used to do stupid shit like make my collar a bit off so she'd fix it ▪︎~▪︎ Weird time in my life, but at least I was like, 14 I'm tired, this is bad and the ending is shit, love yall, drink water, look both ways on the road, stay safe, it's ok to take mental health days, wear a helmet when cycling ♡♡♡♡♡


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